You just don't expect this kind of thing at Chili's

Last Saturday Leslie and I went with another couple to dinner and a movie. Because we are that exciting.

After a dinner of tapas in downtown Norfolk we headed over to the MacArthur Center mall, a beautiful upscale shopping plaza unfortunately located near less-than-desirable areas of Norfolk. We were about an hour early for our movie, so the girls headed off to shop and Chris and I walked around for a while before we arrived at the inevitable conclusion: Let's grab a beer!

Malls are not known for bars, and MacArthur is no different. But they did have a Chili's and it is hard to argue with an all-day Happy Hour and a 23 oz beer for $4. The bar was crowded on this Saturday evening, but we did manage to find one open seat in the corner that we could hover around. We opted for the larger beer because we had an hour until the movie, and we figured 23 oz of beer could only help Mall Cop. After purchasing our Miller Lites we settled in to watch whatever college basketball game was on TV. I can't even tell you who was playing, because, not 30 seconds into my beer, the drunk lump on the stool next to us awoke. And our suffering began. What follows below is a rough transcript of the conversation. I cannot aver to its complete accuracy, due to the brain damage suffered in that interminable five minutes.

Scene. Chili's Bar and Grill. A late Saturday evening. The bar is full, but the cold winter night makes the crowd feel warm and inviting. Our two intrepid guys enter the bar and gravitate toward the one vacant seat at the bar. The man on the right of the empty chair eagerly invites us to take the seat. Another man, mid-twenties, sits drunkenly to the left of the empty chair, nursing the final sips of what was most assuredly his fourth or fifth Bud Lite of the night. The man goes unnoticed by our friends until, sensing the unmolested presence around him, he stirs from his stupor and latches on.

Drunk: Hey.
Me:
Drunk: Hey.
Me:
Drunk: How are you.
Me: Fine.
Drunk: Who do you work for?
Me: The Navy.
Drunk: Are you an officer or enlisted?
Me: Officer.
Drunk: What's your rank?
Me: Lieutenant.
Drunk: How long you've been in?
Me: Two years.
Drunk: My dad was in the Navy.
Me: Cool.
Drunk: He is a retired commander.
Me: Good for him.
Drunk: I am a freelance writer.
Aside to Chris: Oh God.
Me: Oh? Who do you write for?
Drunk: Whoever pays me. Mostly truck magazines.
Me: That's nice.
Drunk: Whatever, man. If they want to pay me $600 a month, that's cool.
Me: Sure.
Drunk: I see your ring. You married?
Me: Yep.
Drunk: How long?
Me: Two years.
Drunk: Where is she?
Me: Shopping.
Drunk: What for?
Me: Whatever she wants.
Drunk: You don't know what?
Me: No.
Drunk: You've been married two years and you don't know what she likes?
Me (telepathic guy signal to Chris): Drink quickly.
Drunk: What does she do?
Me: Teaches.
Drunk: In Norfolk.
Me: Sure.
Drunk: What school?
Me: Uhhh....Norcom. (footnote: Norcom is not in Norfolk, as I later discovered)
Drunk: In Norfolk?
Me: Yup.
Drunk: What part of Norfolk?
Me: Don't know.
Drunk: Oh. I've lived in Norfolk my whole life.
Chris' phone rings. It is his wife.
Chris (aside): We're at Chili's. DON'T COME HERE. Where are you? Okay, we'll meet you there.
Drunk (noticing Chris for the first time): Hey.
(repeat above conversation verbatim)
Drunk (after interrogating Chris): I know why no one sat here. I'm just trying to be friendly.
Me (finishing beer and already running like hell): Yeah. Well, take it easy.

Elapsed time: 4 min, 48 sec.

The worst beer I have ever had in my life. But Mall Cop was hilarious.

An Abundance of Caution

President Obama retook the oath of office in a small ceremony Wednesday evening after the other oath--the one that the rest of the world saw--was somewhat bungled:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28780417/

Leslie and I were talking about this last night.  I think that, being that the oath is written word-for-word in the Constitution, any foul-up could result in the oath being ruled unconstitutional.  They've made similar rulings for much more abstract issues.  In this case, the Constitution is pretty cut-and-dry.  Read the oath.  Become President.  Bam. 

Was Bush President for an extra day?  I submit that, technically, he was.  (Though you may argue Obama has been, by default, President for about two months now.)  Does this render moot all the orders and documents President Obama signed on Tuesday and Wednesday?  I think by retaking the oath the Obama administration admits that the transfer of power was iffy.  They'd better re-sign all those documents.

A glimmer of hope

I spent my morning selling donuts at a navy shipyard, because although the Navy will not contribute toward our annual Ball they will let fifteen people spend half the day selling Krispy Kremes. Go figure.

In the midst of this fundraiser, a man bought a dozen donuts from me. He asked if he could get a warm box. Now, it was a cold morning (~28 degrees F) so I dug into the middle of the stack looking for a semi-warm box of donuts. But this gentleman laughed it off and said, "Oh don't worry about it, I was just being facetious."

Facetious! Used correctly! Without prompt or provocation! In an everyday donut transaction! In the middle of a shipyard where the most clever thing is a banner that reads, "Don't be a fool, Use safety as your tool!"

I may have given this man a box of twelve Original Glazed Krispy Kreme donuts, but he gave me something much more valuable. He gave me a three-syllable word at 5:45 in the morning.

Mommy's gonna get you...

We were having dinner with some friends on Saturday night at the Cheesecake Factory (delicious!) and the conversation turned to their recent trip to L.A. for the Rose Bowl.  During the trip they had an opportunity to meet the girl that climbed out of the TV in the horror movie, The Ring.  That's right, the evil undead child who haunted my dreams for months (and I only saw the trailer).  It turns out this on-screen spawn of Satan is all grown up and well-adjusted and attending college.  She wants to be a teacher.

So, when she has children of her own how soon does she show them the movie?  MPAA ratings aside, I think the movie could be a very good parenting tool.  Mommy used to crawl out of the TV and kill people, and all they did was watch a movie.  So help you God, child, you'd better eat that damn zucchini.  You don't want to make Mommy angry.  She lived in a well when she was a child so you know she is a little unstable.  What's that?  You don't want to go to bed?  That's okay, let's watch some of Mommy's home movies...

This parenting tool probably has a limited shelf life, but you figure that when the effect has worn off the kid will be too emotionally scarred for a while to try anything.  I guess she can start grounding him after that.

A Government run on Post-Its

I have become what my boss kindly refers to as a "surplus employee," and, Navy IT being what it is, the wait time to get another computer now exceeds the time I have left in my current job.  This has forced me into somewhat of a nomadic existence--I roam the halls in desperate search of colleagues who are out sick. 

In Discovery Channel terms, I am pretty sure I've fallen right past "hunter-gatherer" and "scavenger" and devolved directly into "parasite."

Though my current station in life has made me into an office pariah of sorts, cubicle-squatting has given me some fascinating insight into my co-workers.  While most of this insight is related to personal medication preferences, I have noticed that the operation of our office depends entirely on Post-It notes.

Entire cubicle walls are canary.  Every important phone number and email address is haphazardly affixed to a wall somewhere.  User names and passwords create a yellow frame around computer monitors.  I'm not even sure how these things are staying up.  I saw a Post-It note today from 1999.  If there is an agency that tracks office supplies world records, I submit this Post-It note for the Stickiness Endurance (Middleweight) category.  But seriously, a decade-old Post-It?  That is crazy.  Temporary three-inch-square sticky storage was not meant for such extremes.

I know I can't expect our octogenarian workforce to fathom the Outlook contact list, but I think it is time for us to step up to a more modest technology.  You know, new-fangled ideas like Rolodexes, address books and index cards.  Because I am convinced that if someone were to rearrange all our sticky notes overnight, our government would fall to its knees.